


What Should Never Be

by ChiaraD



Series: Seal Team Week 2021 [4]
Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Fear The Unlived Life, Gen, Internal Monologue, SEAL Team (TV) Week 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiaraD/pseuds/ChiaraD
Summary: In an alternate universe Clay never became a SEAL. What would his life look like if everything that makes him Clay never came to be? Look inside Clay's worst fear realized as he has to decide what kind of a life he really wants for himself.Seal Team Week 2021 prompt #4: Worst Fear
Series: Seal Team Week 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113896
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	What Should Never Be

The piercing sound of the alarm wakes Clay from his slumber and he throws his hand out blindly to silence it. How is it already morning? He never feels like he gets enough sleep, whether he gets three hours or thirteen hours. The sound of a woman speaking loudly elsewhere in the house drifts past his exhaustion to poke sharp pins into his brain until he rolls his eyes and flops over onto his belly; his perfectly tailored pajamas twist around his chest and hips as he pulls his pillow over the back of his head to drown it out. He has no interest in getting up and facing her this morning, yet he can’t lay in bed all day. Work is waiting for him.

When the alarm goes off a second time he groans loudly into the mattress, pushing the pillow around his face so the sound is too muffled to escape and race down the hallway to tattle on him. He blindly throws his hand out again, wishing he could break the damn thing rather than just silence it. The high thread count sheets, high quality mattress, and hand-carved bed frame are comfortable in the morning; even when they feel like prison chains at night. He takes a few breaths, shifting his thoughts to daydreams: he’s the hero, the brains of the operation, the leader of the pack, and has a body Adonis would be envious of. Just as he feels his stress level start to wane, and strangely feels his loins begin to stir in ways they rarely do anymore, the alarm goes off again.

Three times is two too many, she’s fond of saying. If it goes off a fourth time she’ll come in and throw the covers off, drag the pillow away, and demand he get moving; he hates it when she treats him like a petulant child so he’d better stop dawdling. He tosses the pillow aside, rolls back over, turns off the alarm, and sits up on the edge of the bed. A bone-weary sigh escapes him, dragging his shoulders down and his back into a deep hunch. Guess another day has begun and he has to face it like a good little soldier.

Clay slips his feet into his stupid monogrammed slippers and drags himself down the hall to the bathroom; or more exactly: his bathroom, which he shares with one of the guest bedrooms. She’d designed it without any input from him, but he really didn’t care all that much if the wall colors were perfectly paired with the amount of natural light or if the fixtures clashed with the dark gray color of the stone resin tub and shower. He just wanted a place to be able to get himself clean, have a little cry once in a while, and a well-lit mirror so he can make sure the stress isn’t making him go prematurely gray or bald. The maid had been through already this morning, based on the fresh towels, and he can feel the tightness in his neck grow at the reminder that a woman is paid to clean up after him.

The heat of the water cascading over him helps briefly, but once he’s made quick work of cleaning off the little bit of body oils and sweat from the past day he turn the water to as cold as he can stand it. He closes his eyes and goes back to his daydream: after a long day in the harsh sun and dust the unheated water from a makeshift shower helps wash off the drenching sweat and thick layer of grime that’s built up under his clothes; the chill is a blessing and reminder of a difficult job done exceptionally well.

Unfortunately after just a few minutes he has to open his eyes and snap back to reality. His palm slaps against the shower surround in frustration with himself before moving to turn off the water then sliding the glass door aside so he can grab one of the overly-fluffy towels she had insisted they have in every bathroom. Wrapping it around his thin waist he steps out onto the plush rug. He rubs his hand over his face, feeling a hint of stubble he needs to get rid of. Damn he hates shaving, but she won’t let him grow out his beard. Taking a few steps over to the counter he looks into the mirror and frowns at what he sees: a thin, weak body controlled by a dumb, weak mind that’s sooner rather than later probably going to have a beer gut and a permanently limp dick. A tedious attempt at styling his ridiculous fancy hair cut, a few swipes with his electric razor, and a dab of the disgustingly stinky cologne she wants him to wear and he can’t stand to look in the mirror any longer. He wipes the last of the water drops from his skin and hangs his towel up.

Clay suddenly realizes he forgot to bring his clothing in with him; she hates when he leaves the bathroom in only a towel so he’d better move fast. Wrapping the fluff tightly around his waist he grabs his pajamas, opens the door, and silently stalks back to the bedroom. He closes the bedroom door without a sound, pulls out a pair of tighty-whitey underwear and socks to throw on, and then opens the closet door to stare at the perfectly aligned suits and ties inside. He can feel his testosterone count drop another few notches as he reaches in, picks his poison, and quickly pulls it on. A quick look at the double-width full length mirror she insisted they keep in the walk-in closet verifies that he looks pulled together enough to finally go downstairs and risk facing her.

Even from the balcony area atop the large marble staircase he can already feel the intense dread crushing down on him. He stops and stares over the edge, briefly curious what it would feel like to toss himself over; could it really be much worse than this soul-crushing life? With a sigh he slowly descends, trying to keep his dress shoes from making a sound against each stair. Once at the bottom he wanders through the formal living room, or parlor as she wants it called, and past the edge of the kitchen into the breakfast room. He nods towards the chef, who quickly sets his newspaper aside and starts putting together Clay’s breakfast.

His son and daughter are sitting at the table, finishing their meals in silence. Both are sullen and dazed as they stare at the tablets propped next to their plates, likely reading whatever novel they have to do a report on next for their prep school courses. He takes a seat and watches them rather than wishing them a good morning, as the voice bounding across the house from the office is loud enough he can tell she’s on a conference call and too much noise will make her furious. Occasionally he’s wondered if getting them tutors early so each could skip a grade was truly as good of an idea as had been sold to him a few years ago; shouldn’t an eight-year-old and a nine-year-old be more interested in playing rather than reading Dickens or Plato or whatever other bull they’re staring at?

His breakfast is set in front of him and though it’s probably perfectly cooked and seasoned he’s so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t even taste it as he shovels bite after bite in and chokes it down. What he wouldn’t give for a calorie-fest at a greasy spoon or a burger from a fast food joint now and again, yet if he’s going to keep that beer gut at bay he’s stuck with the perfectly-calibrated-for-him healthy nonsense the chef was informed to make for him. As his kids finish their last bites he looks at his watch and realizes what time it is. He has them pack it up, ushers them in their perfectly pressed uniforms out to his SUV, and heads to the school to drop them off. Once they’re inside he heads for work.

Heading for work and driving to work are two different states, it seems, since he’s once again stuck in traffic that’s moving slow enough he could probably walk there faster. Being entirely alone inside a space for the first time this morning means he gets to be as loud as he wants and Clay takes advantage of it. He flips on some loud rock and cranks it up, singing – or rather yelling – along with the lyrics. Unlike at home, he couldn’t care less who hears or sees him. When he’d first started having to make these long drives he’d hated it; now, it’s the only time he can escape the perfectly manicured image of a life his wife demands to let himself feel a little more like who he wishes he was.

Working as a CFO is the last job Clay had ever thought he’d end up doing, but here he is. Numbers and spreadsheets and reports galore stream through his brain for ten to twelve hours a day at least five days per week, more often during the end of the fiscal year or whenever they are processing through another big deal. The greetings at meetings revolve around golf scores and sometimes end with hints about mistresses and ‘jokes’ about doctored expense reports. Everything feels fake including the money. Sure, his seven figure salary before bonuses has given him a life that too many think they’re envious of; but, he knows that no matter how high you go in a company there’s always someone higher somewhere and no matter how much money he makes there’s always a way to make more. None of it creates joy or seeds a happy life. It’s just mind-numbing and dream-destroying falsities that mean nothing in the big scheme of the world. There’s nothing he does that directly affects lives for the positive or makes the world a better place to live in. Anyone else could be dumped into his job and it would change practically nothing.

Another long day complete, the drive home not enough to make a dent in the despair before he makes it back home. The kids are already in bed, his dinner is waiting to be reheated, and she is sitting in the family room waiting for him. He has no interest in dealing with her, but he doesn’t get to say no; not to her.

She’s furious with him. He’s moping around. He’s useless as a father. She wants to go on a month-long trip with her friends, but he doesn’t make enough money for her to stop working for that long. He does nothing to help around the house. She has to do everything. He’s not the virile and strong man she thought she was marrying. She wanted more kids, but the two he already gave her aren’t beautiful enough or smart enough to be of any good to her.

She’s leaving him.

She’s sending the kids off to boarding school and making sure he can only see them one weekend a month.

She’s going to ruin him like he ruined her life.

He will be left with nothing when she’s done with him.

Marcie is a bitch and he wishes to god he’d never met her.

Clay stands; ready to scream at the top of his lungs about how much he hates his life, especially her.

A hand shaking him wakes Clay and his eyes shoot open. He looks around at the dull greens and yellows around him in the dark night then looks to the man lying next to him.

“It’s your watch, Clay. If the HVT doesn’t show, wake me in three hours.”

Clay takes a deep breath and shifts his large hulking mass inside the tiny sniper hide so he can get on the scope while his brother slides back a few inches and puts his head down for a quick rest. As he trains the scope on the concrete house in front of him, quickly scanning the windows and door for movement, a smile blooms on Clay’s lips until it takes over his whole face. He’s covered in a layer of dirt and sweat thick enough to feel like it’s turned to paste. He can still feel the damp in his pants from a few hours ago when he could no longer hold in his urine during the daytime with too many people around to risk moving. Bugs have been crawling on any exposed skin and occasionally having a snack at his expense. He’s only gotten 2-3 hours of sleep at a time for the past two days. His pay is shit for having to put his life, body, and well-being on the line every time he goes outside the wire.

Yet, compared to the nightmare he just had, this is his happy place. Being forced to trade in his ghillie suits for business suits and being out in the field for being stuck in an office would be hell on earth for Clay.

The front door of the house opens and a woman steps outside. Clay nudges his brother then goes for his radio.

“Havoc this is Bravo 6: HVT in sight.” The smile never leaves his lips as the rest of Bravo and Alpha teams start to move in.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully no one liked Clay's first one-night-stand (Marcie) after breaking up with Stella, because the way she used Clay for just a quick romp while he was obviously raw and vulnerable inspired this story.


End file.
